Confession

I’m really good at thinking I’m right. All the time.
In our home it has become a bit of a joke – “Can you even say the word?”

And I’m worried I can’t.
Because sorry means I did something wrong. It means I made a mistake. It means I hurt someone.
And it means I need to be forgiven.

Recently, I was on the receiving end of the most gracious apology I’ve ever experienced.

And it has changed me.

Graham Tomlin, a clever dude who runs a little theological college called St Mellitus, says that “when we are loved we are able to change”.

So how was I changed?

Well, two dear, dear friends are having a baby. They have been walking with us on our rocky infertility journey and they wanted to let us share their good news. They sent us a lovely, thoughtful e-mail. They invited us into their joy.

They are two of the most thoughtful people I know. They care. Properly care. They want to love people.
In their joy, they also included their precious baby scan.

And I unravelled.

You see, for so many people a baby scan is so very wonderful. It goes straight on Facebook to share indiscriminately. It gets wafted around to be rightly celebrated.

As someone experiencing infertility it is like a tiny paper cut on my heart. It serves as a reminder of my lack. My barrenness. My empty womb. It is a trigger for shame. Shame is never helpful.

So without intending to do so, our friends had pressed that trigger and switched on my shame.
Believe me, I know it is my shame. It isn’t their problem. It is mine.

But when we truly love one another then we try not to hurt each other. We don’t want to cause others to stumble.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My soul was restless. I desperately wanted to rejoice with them but I was hurting. You begin to question your friendship. If they thought it was ok to send me their scan photo then will I be sent everyone they have? Will I know her uterus better than my own?

Now, something you should know about me is that I’m a retreater. I hate confrontation. It makes me feel physically ill. Brené Brown would suggest that my discomfort is actually vulnerability. Whatever it is, I hate it.

But I love my friends and I don’t want to run away from hard stuff anymore. I didn’t want to cause a wedge between us.

So I turned to my good friend, e-mail. I prayed that I could get my tone right, that I could articulate my feelings well. I asked my friends to remember me.

A wave of relief came from saying ‘out loud’ that their scan photo was a trigger for me.
Their response far exceeded my expectations. No trite apology was issued, no quick fix was attempted. They wanted to meet us. To be reconciled. To be together.

At that meeting, they sincerely apologised for unintentionally hurting me.

I waited. Expecting a defence. Expecting indignation and justification for their actions.
It never came. And I discovered something.

Their joy wasn’t diminished by my admission of pain. They wanted our friendship to remain. That was more important than my ‘negative’ reaction. We hugged, I wept (I do that a lot), we talked about how we can move forward together on this new adventure and I felt overwhelmed by love.

They have lots of people they can show their scan photos to. But it won’t be me. And that is ok. I have other ways I can celebrate with them.

The final lesson they taught me was that even with the best intentions we can hurt one another. However, when we gently and lovingly acknowledge that and honestly want to move on from it, we can.

Thinking about how we share our good news with others is good. Would I send my friend struggling to pay her bills a screen shot of my bulging bank balance? Would I send my friend fighting illness a copy of my glowing medical report?

Of course not.

Our joy is not diminished by acknowledging the pain of others.

It might change how we share our news but it doesn’t limit that celebration. The challenge still remains to be open about the situations and times which cause us hurt. No one can demonstrate empathy and understanding if we retreat and hide our pain in silence. Believe me, I’m on a steep learning curve about this but I truly believe we can learn to hold joy and hurt together and discover that they aren’t mutually exclusive

“Love from the centre of who you are; don’t fake it…Be good friends who love deeply; practice playing second fiddle.”
Romans 12: 9-10 The Message

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Apart from undertaking all things vicar wifeish, Sheila
enjoys spending her days drinking coffee with friends, cuddling cats,
laughing until she cries, reading books and dreaming of exotic holidays. She was once a primary school teacher and may well be again. Sheila loves being a part of the Saltwater & Honey family and having the chance to share her journey through infertility.

Saltwater and Honey is a collection of voices sharing their stories about infertility, miscarriage, childlessness and faith. These experiences can be painful and leave you feeling isolated but we want you to know that you are not alone, it’s okay to grieve and your story matters.